Been quiet again, I know. It's just a phase in the moon. Or maybe something I ate. Still with the whole not anything to share period- just don't think of myself as all that interesting, and not up for ranting about anything. I read enough of those at work on the message boards- mostly about cars and racing. And it is a bit self-serving to complain- I did put myself on the boards, intentionally. And sometimes enjoy it. But there you have it.

Yesterday was my final PT for my shoulder. It is done. I have most of my mobility back, and what I don't have yet, I will get soon, or never- not all is necessary for fully functioning. I probably won't be spending much time doing sideplank position in Yoga, so there you have it, again. And yes, it bloody well did hurt. But it's like that. If it hurts, I did more of it. Because I thought it necessary. And it appeared to work. I am done a month early. Ha.

Kman had a road trip last weekend. He went on a drive with a passel of other BMW enthusiasts. He didn't take his old girl- she is currently disassembled in the garage- appears she has a slight oil leak. For a couple of decades. And my honey is nothing but a man for Sisyphean efforts. Stick a finger in that dike, son, it might slow the flow a bit.

And my current writing project is slowly taking over my life. I should be happy, but am a bit perplexed. There are characters in it who suddenly appeared, and one came back from the dead (where I put her in the last draft- seems she didn't want to die, after all.) Since when do they have a bloody choice? Appears when I write fiction, they get free range like the chickens. They say, "fuck you, we do what we want." And I oblige by recording it all. Fine. Be that way, then. And it it sucks, it won't be my fault.

And now I go to work. It's like that.

All right then. Because it has been difficult to drum up enthusiasm lately for my usual rantn and ravin, I might have to resort to just confessin.

I've been working on a project. I was supposed to remain in phase 2 of my new me development process (if you remember, phase 1 was the job). Phase 2 is very close, actually. Less than 20 pounds to go, and the pounds that remain are configured very differently. So that's all good, and I had always intended to remain free of the "weight loss blog" kind of thing. So that's that.

Phase 3 has started prematurely. But I think that's how things work. No clean boundaries, really. The project is writing in nature, and I am knee deep in research. What is is about? Sssshhhhhhh.....that might not get told quite yet. But it isn't autobiographical so much as just...different. I've been re-reading a bunch of books, though. Things that got me thinking back in the day. And I do mean back in the day. I found a book that spurred my interest in the subject I studied in grad school. I found a book that scared me so badly that I took it back to the library unfinished. But had to check it out again to find out what happened- and then read it again and again. But only during the day. There's really something incredible happening as I dive into these stories again- it's bringing back my internal voice- the one I used to use all the time to play and tell stories to myself when I was bored. And that's not a bad thing, I suspect.

No, the voices aren't telling me to DO things, or anything like that. Not to worry, Holmes. I am fine. Just getting in touch with some elements that have been neglected for far, far too long. And not entirely sure what is going to come out. But the long-postponed project that I was working on a couple of years ago is still in there, and a couple of elements that I couldn't figure out have resolved themselves very nicely in the past week.

And that is what I am doing in my head lately. That and singing along to the music in my car. Because that stops me from hating other drivers. No way I can be screaming at them if I am singing along to the fabulous and dreamy Jack White. So there. Don't be hating.

Ah, the joy of discovering that some days all I encounter is the incessant OPINIONIZING of one collection of experts after another. All fucking day. Not my people- they are fine. It's others at the company. Who CANNOT and WILL NOT leave a sentence untouched. Because it is IMPORTANT to have the best and most highly intellectual opinion about it. Regardless of what it is. And regardless of how high they rank on the jackassery scale when they express that opinion. It just does.not.stop.

Ah, it fucking kills me. And I am constantly amazed. But then I grow jaded. And thankful that I don't have to deal with these horse's asses daily. Only via email. Which is sufficient, thank you.

And it also explains why I would surmise the majority of these particular fellows never, ever get laid. I wonder how many men at my company own Realdolls?

Ah, the Monday morning post. Sort of a summation of the weekend, what I remember, at least, and avoidance of going to work.

Well, not today. Nothing of true note happened this weekend- mainly some snow (yes. Snow.), visits with friends, calls with family, some shopping, some driving around, and cleaning of the house.

So the problem with this forum is that it is always by necessity at this point a soliloquy. And I've never been all that into the speechifying...well, maybe a bit. But sometimes I just get tired of listening to my own voice. I prefer to have conversations. I prefer to not dive so deeply into my own head. Just because I really don't think there's much in there that anyone else would find interesting.

But I will admit that the idea that others might not find my every word fascinating came with age. Once upon a time, there was a princess. She thought that she was unique. She knew that she was special. She also figured that since she was unique and special, that everyone knew it, and would be interested in everything she said. And so it was. On and on. No one ever told her that she was a pedantic bore. No one really wanted to face her wrath. Because the wrath was very evident right under the surface. So they put up with her, until they didn't.

The end.

But it did end, and there is a happy ending, after all. Because she grew up, got her head out of her ass, and realized that other people have limits of what they find interesting. And a lot of the garbage that passes for mental activity is merely that- potato chips and soda of the mind.

So. And onward. We saw a documentary on BBC America last night about Realdolls. And the men who love them. Oh my. God. It was an hour of very disturbing things. And I can only imagine that all of the men in question live in homes with a certain...funk about them...

And that is my gift to you on Monday morning. Realdoll documentary. Heh.

"Marie Antoinette" was on last night. I have to say I hate that movie. Costumes, check. Sets, check. Emptiness, check. And it's not just the sappy moviemaking. I have always hated the story. Hated it like I hate the story of the Russian Revolution. And it is personal. No, I am not claiming to be the reincarnated Anastasia. Nothing of the sort.

I have always sympathized with both sides, and fully understand why neither family could be allowed to live. They HAD to be wiped off the globe by the revolutionaries not only to legitimize the movement and finalize the victory, but also to ensure that there were no happy returns. It still boggles my mind that they didn't do the same to Napoleon. Seems a tad...naive.

But the human destruction causes me grief. I hate that Marie and family were slaughtered because they were stupid. And rich. And the basic end-game genetically. Now how much of this was their own personal fault is one thing. But being thrust into roles for which they were neither prepared nor suited wasn't necessarily their fault. And that's the crowning bloody tragedy of it all. Ditto the silly Romanovs. The whole culture that they perpetuated and relished of being so detached from humanity as a whole, and the excesses just make it more of a sad display.

I honestly don't know which side I would've fallen on. Probably the revolution's. As no doubt, I would've been a peasant, and heartily pissed at the expense and quality of footwear. And food. And seeing those saps living la vida would've brought out the pike skewering rage in me right quicklike, y'all.

But I still hate the stories and hate the movie, and can definitely be happy that I don't HAVE to either teach the topics or read about them. Not without a large bucket of wine to drown my sorrows at the stupid fucking human condition.

While I have a kitty making biscuits on my lap, I can breathe for a minute. I'm not going anywhere.
Not for a bit.

Lately those moments aren't as common as I would like. Not the kitty part, just the silence. Internally and externally. Feels like nothing but running around endlessly. Point a to point b. Over and under and through again.

Endless repetition and then some more. Again! And the thing that is funny about it is that the repetition doesn't just become ritual. Nothing that profound. Just busywork. Not infused with splendor or meaning. Just busy. Not even with the necessity of a squirrel gathering nuts. Just busy.

And there you have it. The cat has left, and I must commence with the busy.

Context:
They were very young. Probably too young to handle fully the experiences and responsibilities that they seized so willingly. But they had their reasons. History played a role. As did emotion. And escape.

Narrative:
Not your typical fairy tale. In fact, not a fairy tale at all. No real villains, just well-meaning, but at times ineffectual people. A couple of fools. And in the end fine people who made some questionable and at times bad choices.

Summation:
Yes, indeed, time heals all wounds- if you let it. And there might be scars. These aren't removed by silicone bandages (have you seen these?). They are forever. But they become less important.

Reality:
Taking the time to transition from bitterness to sadness to something beyond all of these choices can cause a ruckus internally. But it isn't the hardest part. And it isn't something that is easily shared. Not with the causes, and not with the effects. It's an internal game, really.

Conclusion:
Watching the cat eat a spider is more interesting on a good day than pondering the imponderables of the past, and more fulfilling ultimately.

If it's not raining it's bloody foggy outside. Once upon a time, I thought it would be wonderful to live in England. Well, most of my childhood, actually. Always wanted it. Ever since I ran across a children's biography of Queen Elizabeth I. Then I read everything I could find about England. And being English. But Montana is a long way from England. Like that's not obvious. And my family is a far cry from English. We speak the language, and that's about it. Most of the rest of it is as foreign as the Galapagos. We have wonderful teeth (for the most part). We drink our beer cold (if we drink beer). We don't particularly cotton to cricket- it bores us. As does soccer. We prefer American Football. We don't drive British cars- the electronics are too sketchy. And there's no one in town to service them. And growing up, I don't remember having tea in the house. That particular fact really bothered me. Because tea seemed important. A cornerstone really. And we were so very unBritish. And I wanted it to be different. I wanted tea.

I remember my mother went out of her way to buy me tea. It was the Lipton kind. And I overbrewed it. It was the nastiest stuff I had consumed, with the exception of the vodka I sipped one time (wanted to see what the fuss was about- still can't drink it- appears aversion therapy works sometimes). So I thought tea was nasty, and the English were a tad odd.

But this weather thing. Nothing romantic about it, really. Just moist. And too cold for things to grow properly yet. I used to love foggy days, mainly because I can count on one hand how often they occurred. But now I have lost count, and the romantic aspects of it are vanishing quickly. Because all it really means is that the drive to work will be slower, and the windows at work will be all pearly, and dark.

But it's not all bad. I didn't grow up English, but I did grow up with a fondness for Mary Poppins. And for Ian Fleming. And for Arthur Conan Doyle. And for Virginia Woolf. There are others on the list, I am just getting bored.

Cheerio.

General update now:

Nothing to rant about. But I did make an excellent discovery yesterday. I have been verging on road ragey for weeks. Mainly because I commute amongst idiots and arseholes. Trust me. They are. So, I hate who I become when I am driving. It perplexes me, as I can't figure out where that aggression is coming from. So yesterday. Instead of NPR, because it is begweek, and I already gave for the year, I opted for CDs. And it was good. I sang along like a goofus. And it was good. No rage. Perhaps I have found a solution. Or unbeknownst to me, I had the right chemical mix of coffee in the blood for once.

Shoulder progress is steady, unpleasant at times, and overall encouraging. Still never gonna see complete mobility, but it'll not hurt. And the PT is now officially kicking my ass twice a week. And I love her for it. But not in an S & M way, just know that she's doing her job well. And it's not in a $2Million dollar flat in Chelsea.

Job is fine. Not much to report there. Just the usual fire drills, hijinks, and petty annoyances that take up time during the day. I still maintain that a hefty number of people who work at my company are stark raving lunatics, but there you have it. At this point, I can probably count myself in their ranks- see above, about the driving...

It is, of course, as I write, raining again. Not much to say about that either, suffice it to say it is dreadfully depressing. There was a garden growing in our street gutter. A layer of mud had sprouted 6" of grass and weeds. It was frightening, and confirmed what those tv shows about the end of humanity have to say. Once we are gone, the blackberries, ivy and weeds take over. There is a camaro down the street that I need to take a pic of and post here- it has been on blocks for years. It is covered with green mold. God knows what the interior looks and smells like. But the exterior is something to behold.

Nothing else to report at this point. Just wanted to give the update for those of you who might be interested. Now on to work.

Changing gears

I was going to write about the wonders of our new Dyson vacuum cleaner. Amazing. Simply awesome. We lived in absolute filth, people, and were totally unaware.

But I got sidetracked by my response to another person's blog. And need to vent. Go figure.

In F1, currently, there is a bit of a scandal. Seems the FIA (governing body of the racing series) President, Max Mosley (yes, son of Sir Oswald Mosley and Diana Mitford- Wiki them, bloody fascinating but scary-ass family) was caught in a sting operation cavorting with 5 hookers in a rough trade afternoon. What is nice about this is that he is 67, and apparently in very FINE health. What is not so nice about this is that the News of the World in Britain has labeled the ladies Nazi re creators for pay. Now I (in the spirit of intellectual inquiry) watched bits of the film. And I didn't see Nazi symbolism anywhere. Just some high end call girls dressed in domi outfits, and some prison garb. (Oh, you bad, bad boy Max!). And some bottom spanking.

According to the news, the video goes on for five hours. Impressive. But for such a seemingly spendy venture, if indeed Max's fetish goes towards Naziism, it was a waste of his money. Because that was just not there. Not there.

So. My point. The F1 community and the press are reacting in the most deer in headlights alarmist fashion. They are pillorying the man. In public. Despite the fact that he hasn't been accused of a crime. And the Nazi thing hasn't been proven. And the video was taped illegally (and I suspect as part of a blackmail scheme-there are at least 5 different cameras involved). He has been set up. Obviously. No question. And still. The press (ie. Murdoch's establishment in England) is hammering him. And he is suing the pants off of them. And rather than take a moment, be calm about it, and insist that the allegations be fully proven, most of the teams have chosen to condemn the man.

What really chaps my ass, besides the unfairness of being condemned without a trial, is that I feel sorry for Max. I don't like Max. Never have. And I feel that I must defend the man. Ick. Feh.

I just overwhelmingly hate that people attribute the press with some kind of magical power of truth. That if it is written down, it is automatically true. That pisses me off beyond extreme. And I want to start calling out instances of the media being manipulated. And in this instance the media clamoring for one man's blood is more than I can bear.

Looks like someone's got a case of the...

Sometimes I just don't know what the hell people expect. It astounds me. Like when they act surprised when I do something clever. Or astounded when I create a new process that works well with some heretofore muddled situation.

What the hell do they think I have done with my life?

What the hell do they think I did before getting this job?

I just don't get it. And it's hard not to let their underestimation slip into my pores. And keep a cheerful and happy face on it. No place to go but up, right?

But the patronizing extent of it all... "thank you (redacted) for being so proactive on this!" Fuck you, you tool- it's only my JOB. Fucking ass. And I've been "proactive" about this for about, oh, I dunno, a year now. At least the ones who bother me the most aren't the ones I work that closely with. Like the bossman. He is cool as hell.

But then, I probably need to step off a bit. All this hostility is no doubt personal and hormonal in nature, and needs a better outlet. Like a nap, a funny movie from the 30's, some quality time with Kman, and a raise. I'll start holding my breath for all of the above right about ...... now.

In the meantime, whilst I turn blue, I will go get ready for work. But a nap would be nice. I wonder if I can convince Kman to call in sick with me today.....

Life as a fairy tale

I was addicted to fairy tales as a kid. My aunt and uncle bought me a wonderful set of Grimm's and Anderson's fairy tales when I was too young to read them. I still have them. The challenge of finding out what was between their covers was one of the reasons I learned to read. Ditto the copy of "The Little Prince" that my other uncle gave me when I was 4. Age appropriate? Probably not. But a challenge, you betcha.

So, my life as a fairy tale. It is, you know. Whether I like it or not, the way I structure my own story in my head always follows that pattern. And it keeps me going. Something fresh about the never ending saga. Not like one of the epic poems- nothing that convoluted. More of a small thing, really.

There is always a heroine. That would be me. And there is always a villain. That would be someone else, most of the time. Some times that is also me. And there is the prince. You know him from previous appearances hereabouts. And there is the plot. Pretty unvarying. Adversity/the challenge. The quest. The conquest. The iron core of determination. The triumph. Moving on to the next challenge. The pattern repeats.

I was fascinated by Jung, and his archetypes- especially when applied to fairy tales and tarot cards. Mainly I enjoy seeing that some of what I experience is universal. Only the details are individual. But what I also enjoy is the pattern. The repetition is comforting. It is how I function. By casting myself in a play or a structure like that I can step outside for a moment and see the plot for what it is- temporary, and part of a larger whole. Each step appears random, but the underlying pattern emerges with a little emotional distance. It's like when Kman and I play rock, paper, scissors. He always knows that I will start with scissors, followed by rock. Because I used to always start with rock, and he pointed it out to me, so I switched to scissors. And that pattern means I don't usually win unless he lets me. Because creature of habit.

I don't know if anyone else feels like they are part of some kind of personal play in process. But I kind of imagine it's pretty common. Like those who pattern themselves after Nancy Drew. Or who fell deeply in love with horse books, and have always wanted to be National Velvet. And for the boys, I dunno- never been one. But it's probably more of a recognition of aspirations in a sports figure or something like that.

And do I like being in a fairy tale? Hard to say. Some days, not really. I would rather be more concrete and pragmatic. But on days when the snow soddenly drapes the plum tree across the street in a blanket of white, and the city grows silent, and the night is bright white from the reflected light in the snow, and all grows still, it is just fine. Just fine, indeed.

And now a memory. When I was 5 my uncle (the "Little Prince" one) stayed with us for a while. It was winter. Our kitchen window faced the mountains to the north. Including the Sleeping Giant- the one I wanted so badly to see rise and become real- and was very disappointed to find was only rock and dirt. My uncle woke me in the middle of the night once. He took me to the kitchen window and pointed north. "Look and watch." There were lights dancing in the sky. Colored sheets of light. Reflecting off of the snow in our yard. We stood there watching for a while, and then he put me back to bed. I haven't seen the Northern Lights since, even though it's not an uncommon occurrence. I just haven't looked. Because that magic moment only strikes once. And it's like seeing Disney Land as an adult- it robs the magic from the early time in an incremental way. And I'm not willing to lose that.

Am getting a cold and feeling like ass, so will keep it brief.

No stories from the girl-child today (much to some people's relief, it seems). Just me.

Nothing really happening of note, just sunshine and kitty diabetes (big kitty has a little problem). It's being handled, no real trauma- the hardest part is getting him to eat his special diet- for such a large cat, he is a very picky eater, and is being a tad divaesque. The needles are very small, and he doesn't notice them.

Didn't go to Eugene with Kman over the weekend- to visit the sister in law and family. Stayed at home injecting the cat at 12 hour intervals and watching my very own Joan Crawford film festival. And racing. Always racing.

And now I am getting the cold that everyone has at work. Gotta love the irony of taking a day off over the weekend, and not minding being sick over the weekend, and getting it now.

Other than that nothing. Not in my world anyway. Others have news to report, but let them blog about it themselves, I am feeling lazy. And ill-equipped.

Tagged

Six word memoir (now that's a challenge to the long-winded one, indeed)

Get on with it, she said.

Instructions:
1. Write your own six word memoir
2. Post it on your blog and include a visual illustration if you’d like
3. Link to the person that tagged you in your post and to this original post if possible so we can track it as it travels across the blogosphere
4 Tag five more blogs with links
5. And don’t forget to leave a comment on the tagged blogs with an invitation to play!

Came from the Good Doctor-http://zombieswan.blogspot.com/ (don't know how to embed tags yet. It happens)


I'll get around to tagging some people in a bit- not up to it this morning.

And the photo? It was Easter Dinner at my Great-Grandmother's house circa 1960. I would've scanned something special, but again, not up to it this morning. Think bunny cake, and be happy. (or HOPPY!!! I crack myself up....)

Probably the best part of being little was running. Running fast. All the time. It felt good. Usually bare foot. In the summer wearing only a swimsuit most of the time.

She wondered as an adult where all that energy went. Where was the ability to just play all day long. Where the ability to run all day and not breathe hard went. When all the aches and pains arrived. When she had really grown up and gotten old.

But while it lasted, the running was perfect.

The little girl had a collection of books that she carried around with her. When the collection grew too large, she had to choose only a few to take along. That was torture. Would she pick the one about the birds? Certainly. But then what about the one with the frog and the princess? And then the one about the pretty rock? And then the one about Santa with the best pictures ever? That process, of choice, probably took up more time than finding matching socks. Because matching socks were never a real priority. And she hated the way clean cotton socks felt on her feet anyway. She preferred to be barefoot if given the choice. Nothing was as delicious as the feeling of soft green grass under her toes in the twilight- when the grass was still slightly warm and slightly cool- and the green had turned to black.

She also liked to bury her feet in the sand box, under the warm, dry sand. Down to where the sand was wet and cold. It felt nice. So did the dirt in the garden. But that was forbidden. Because if she uprooted vegetables by mistake, she would get in trouble.

Her favorite time of day was early morning before anyone else was up. She would run into the back yard in her nighty and wait for people to be ready to play. She learned quickly that it wasn't a good idea to visit her friends too early- their parents didn't like it. And she didn't like seeing other people's parents in their robes and slippers. It felt wrong somehow.

She liked Sunday mornings best, because she could hear the bells of the Cathedral in her back yard. When she was really little, that meant that they would be going to church soon. This wasn't a whole lot of fun, and entailed pinchy shoes and scratchy dresses. But it did feel special somehow. And afterwards was usually an opportunity to show off her purse with the favored books and maybe a doll inside.

As for the actual religion, it pretty much escaped her. She could recite some of the stories, but was more interested in the colors of the windows and the statues on the walls. Those were her favorites. She always dreamed of them opening their eyes and talking to her. She wanted that more than anything, and was disappointed when it never happened.

The little girl was overall very happy in these early days. Very happy indeed. Things were going her way, with a certainty.

Once upon a time. All good stories begin with "Once upon a time." There was a girl. And she wants me to tell her story. Really, I have tried to avoid this for years. But she is insistent. Just won't let it rest. She always did love a good story.

So it begins. And damn the consequences. And there are consequences. The truth hurts if you avoid it for too long. Essentially bites you in the ass.

But then you can hedge your bets by getting all philosophical about it. Just start talking about perceptions of truth, and objectivity. Turn it into an intellectual discussion rather than an emotional one. Much safer. Theory is always safer than practice.

But those voices. They won't be silenced. And that girl is most strident. So is the older boy. He wants to be heard.

So, I think it's time to let them tell the tales. Those of the fathers, and the mothers, and the little children. All through the viewfinder of an odd camera obscura. Upside down and backwards. Not through the looking glass- that was another teller. But with plenty of scratches on the negatives, and room for interpretation. And the light is fitful and dim. Dreamy with bits of fog in the intervals between notes. And the times between times. And the efforts leading to tears.

Once upon a time, my friends, there was a little girl. And she was most important. In her mind she was an Indian Princess. Like the ones in her Peter Pan book. She had long braids, and loved to wear her grandmother's nightgown and jump on the bed. Her braids would fly in the air, and the nightgown would balloon around her hips. It was pink and blue. Her braids were brown. She was happy. Her grandfather quoted Shakespeare when she left for the evening to go home.

"Goodnight, goodnight. Parting is such sweet sorrow, that I shall say goodnight till it be morrow."

She always giggled at his silliness. And when the grandmother died, and he stopped quoting Shakespeare, and she realized that she was no longer the Indian Princess, the loss was deafening. And irrevocable.

Her favorite game was Cowboys and Indians. She liked to be tied up, only to escape in a dramatic and dynamic fashion. She read Wonder Woman comic books, and linked the two together somehow. She liked to have her back scratched. She liked to eat candy. She liked orange pop the best. She wanted to read her own books by herself more than anything else in the world. She loved cartoons and the Walt Disney show on Sunday nights.

There is more. Only later. Later.

You take what you can get, right?
I mean what happiness.
In between the rest of it all.
It's just an interlude, right?
Because no one can be happy all the time.
Only idiots and fools.
And maybe Englishmen.
But even the songs indicate that, right?
They seem to be divided up evenly.
Johnny Cash versus Paul McCartney.
Never thought I would see their names in the same sentence.
Kind of a negative/positive thing, right?
But back to happiness.
Not the kind of crap in the movies.
The real thing, that disappears overnight sometimes.
But it can come back in the most surprising ways, right?
Like the day that you walk in the rain, and smile at a stranger.
And the child in the stroller holds your gaze.
And smiles back at you without guile.
Something to that, right?
Lack of judgment.
Or just stupid kid.
But still, happiness.
And probably no soundtrack playing in his or her head, right?
No need.
No intent.
No lie.
Right.

So been dealing with those damned boxes of papers again. Not getting easier- sorting and deciding. Do I need the title to the house I used to own? Is that like taxes- need to keep for 7 years to guard against bad luck, or something?

But the fun thing- found a trove of Kman's stuff. We had a great time trawling through it all- he is a very funny man, who once was a very funny boy. I am trying to convince him to let me share. But he is shy. In that way.

Also found my own trove of high school and grade school ribbons, play bills, awards, etc. What a lot of stuff. And all of the meaning pretty much faded. Stripped. Just a book of stuff.

And then I took a pill and went to bed. The end.

Overall she feels good most days.
It's hard to tell through the grey.
Everything is dulled by a scrim of grey.
Before, the colors were bright.
Before, the sky was blue.
Before, her feet could carry her across the globe.

Now she sits.
And feels good most days.
But the memory of the brightness is fading.
And she doesn't really notice.
It's part of the end.
And she didn't get a chance to read the last chapter.
It was written without her.

Why I love (not in a physical sense) my surgeon. He said my arm is improving like it should. He said the intensity of the pain is normal. He gave me Ambien. And more super strength Ibuprofen.

Why I am not fond of morning today. I took the Ambien. The end.

And now, my friends, I will go and prepare for work. Luckily it has kicked my ass again, with lots of extra hours babysitting problems into the evening. So I will have lunch with a mentor, and then leave. Ha HA, I say.

And perhaps, Peaky Beaky will be in my mailbox when I get home. Ah, the bliss. The total bliss.

Ah, now the refrain- the pain, the pain, lord help us, the pain.

And sleep, sleep, ah, the little whore sleep won't visit anymore.

And no, I didn't buy any Girl Scout Cookies for Kman- he loves him the Thin Mints. If I'd known that we would have to visit every grocery store in the area on a quest once he found out they were on sale right now, I would've bought him every blasted box of the fucking things. But I didn't. I don't buy cookies. Not part of the diet plan, son. And the Girl Scouts are out of the Thin Mints. And Kman is sad. And for some reason, I DO feel like it's all my fault...I know, quit owning shit like that. But he is good.

Been in training for a couple of days, then hammered with all of the crap I didn't cope with whilst in training. And there you go. Not bad, really, but not great either.

I did have a moment of fun- and this will probably be an indicator that I am over the top insane, so confirmation, of what most have likely suspected.

There is a book that I loved when I was little. It was about birds. It had a yellow cover. It was really wonderful. And I couldn't remember the title, but have been on the lookout for it for over a decade at thrift shops and antique stores. I knew the publisher. But sure as hell wouldn't burden a book store employee with that very vague request- I remember having to try and figure those ones out (I am looking for a book about a dog, with a blue cover....right.). So the other day, when I was fiddle fucking around on the net, I found it. And I bought it. Spendy, a little. But it's wending its way to me right now.

PEAKY BEAKY. Fucking Peaky Beaky. I remember chanting that name because I thought it was funny when I was little. I remember loving that book beyond all others. And now it will be mine again! Cue the evil laughter....mwahahahahahahaha

Kman suggested that we turn our spare bedroom into a replica of my childhood bedroom, and fill it full of stuff I had when I was little. I told him we could likely get most of the furniture from my parents. So heave off. Then he laughed. My mother thought this was hilarious too. Feh. It's just a book. And it's the end of a decade-long quest. And I didn't lose my mind, the book did exist. And I didn't make an ass of myself in a bookstore looking for it. Only here. Always here.

Was contemplating aging. Mainly because it's kind of what is going on for me. Whether I admit it or not.

So, regrets. Basically the only one I use to pummel myself at this point is that I was SUCH a dumbass for so long. It took me eons to get my shit together. And I could've accomplished so damned much if I had been more together earlier. And don't tell me that it isn't too late. That's not the point. Of course I am still alive, and have this opportunity, etc., etc.

I still regret time lost. Time wasted. And I AM the judge of that. No one else is quite as qualified. It really bugs the hell out of me.

Years, really. Of fruitless flinging myself at problems that were never mine to solve. Of aching over things that didn't belong to me. Of wanting certain relationships to be far richer than they could ever be, for reasons beyond my control. Of suffering under the illusion that I had any real control of elements beyond myself. Of being far too keyed up for my own good. Of being a general busybody, while neglecting my own shit. Of not understanding fully the ramifications of choices I made on a whim and a prayer. Of confusing reaction with choice. Of confusing emotion with reason.

I'm pretty sure I can make the list a hell of a lot longer. But I think you get it. I sure do. But the good news is that I think I have more of a handle on it all than I ever had before. Not to claim some kind of superiority or implacable sense of emotional maturity- but I do think I have more of a sense of clarity. And deliberation. And just plain confidence in my ability to parse it out.

But hell. Bloody hell. What a lot of wasted motion. And emotion. And time. That's the kicker, eh?

Not to complain, but anyway, I think I'll complain.

Whilst feeling groovy on the drugs, I had some fabulous ideas. Things I really wanted to write about. But was feeling tooooo....numb to get out of bed. And then they were gone. Making my empathy for Coleridge that much stronger. In Xanadu did Kubla Khan.....

Not that anything that I write would necessarily compare...but I thought it was pretty profound in my head.

And now I'm off the drug. Except for the Ibuprofen- and that is strictly reduced. Seems I do want my liver and kidneys to function fully. Might seem silly, but I think it's recommended.

Been having the most challenges with the sleeping. Gets uncomfortable in the middle of the night, when the drugs wear off and the aching starts. Positioning is fine- the PT helped with that- she's full of good suggestions. But the pain is still ready and waiting. Hot baths help. But the pain is still waiting. Ice helps. But the pain is still waiting.

And yes, probably being somewhat of a baby. But this is the most lingering ailment/injury that I have ever had. And it's quite remarkable, really. Something that's less than 3 square inches can cause such a tremendous ruckus. But then I suppose that could be said of a mouse. Or a bed bug. Why not a shoulder?

So, one of the major things I was thinking all about had to do with work, and career. Seems that most of the people I work among and with are a tad obsessive about work and career. Something about being over-achievers and all that. It rubs off. I don't think I can go back to being a slacker. Not easily. They are like that with almost everything you can imagine. Work, recreation, family...everything. Competitive. And it does rub off.

But I have made some different choices from them. And continue to do so. And am ok with that. The parts that rub off have more to do with pushing myself personally in a direction that I can really succeed in. Not allowing myself to bog down where I am at, despite it being very comfortable. Knowing up front that it is not forever. And that is not a bad thing. I've been using that collective energy to research and learn. Not done with that process yet by a long shot. And that's fine- one thing I have in my corner is time.

I've also been using that energy to rethink myself physically. Now I'm down 30 pounds for those of you who were keeping track. Got derailed on the momentum with the surgery, but was in the gym after PT on Tuesday (kicked my ass), and have permission to carry on with that. Didn't gain whilst laying around the house. Maintained. Good enough for me right now. But there is more to go. So that's that.

The energy is kind of bubbling up in other, unexpected ways. Like writing projects hitting me in the brain at work. Taking feverish notes to myself. Putting it on a backburner to simmer for a little longer. The best one is a project with Kman. And we are going to discuss more later today, whether he knows it or not. It has everything to do with a conversation about design that we had. And a manifesto. Because as Montanans, we are supposed to pen at least one manifesto in our lifetimes. Part of the contract.

Other than being preoccupied by shiny, sparkly things for a couple of percocet filled weeks, not much happened in my mind of import. For some reason, pain pills make me kind of itchy, unable to sleep, and seriously jonesing for sparkly, pretty things. No lie. All I wanted was to go shopping at Claire's. For sparkly pink bracelets. And sparkly pretty barrettes. And all I could think was, "what, am I 12??? WTF???" This effect was NOT listed in the side effects sheet. And I didn't act on it. Mainly because it didn't really occur until around 3:00AM. And the mall is closed.

This afternoon we visit the tax man. Think happy thoughts about refund checks, please.

Over and out.

So this week has been another one of having my ass handed to me. Physically and mentally. I was involved in planning and running a team offsite- late nights/very early mornings/being on call constantly. It was great fun, but those things just wipe me out.

During all that, PT intensified. So the shoulder was quite cranky on Wednesday. I had to take the vicodin that night. Which meant that I really didn't sleep. But whatever. It's all part of this particular process. Suck it up.

I have been paying attention to my online friends, though. Just silently. Understand- lots going on = little energy for everything else. Apologies.

Other than that, am taking a Career Day today- enjoying all of these internal career planning tools, and prepping for my mid year career discussion with the very nice bossman. Just want to strike the right tone and make sure I don't waste his time. And there you have it.

Tomorrow is tax day. Not much to say there. Send happy thoughts. And inspirational ideas for deductions.

Mystery solved. It was the arugula.

If you are wondering what I am talking about- I'll fill you in.

A while back, I had a lovely mixed greens salad. I thought that the friend who made the salad had poisoned me- because I was sick for 3 days afterwards with what appeared to be severe food poisoning. But she didn't get sick. Hmmmmm. But seriously, the way that relationship turned out, she would've poisoned me...she was the type.

So about 3 months later I had a nice mixed greens salad during a business lunch. By the time I got to the office, I realized what a horrible mistake I had made. I had about 20 minutes to get home before I got sick, and was out for 4 days and required a prescription to shut down my body's violent antipathy towards the salad.

My dad suggested that I try and figure out what the exact culprit was. Good idea in theory, but I was never quite open to employing the scientific method and being sick for the better part of a week. Even though it is a remarkable diet plan.

Spinach and regular lettuce are fine in moderation. But must be eaten with other things. And cooked greens are no issue whatever.

So last night we were at a charity auction, and this salad appeared. It looked like spinach, so I took a bite- about 2 pieces of green. And discovered that it was definitely not spinach, but arugula. I didn't think much about it, as it was a minuscule amount, and I ate a pretty hefty dinner around it. But then....those distinctive "I am your tummy and not very happy with you right now" feelings started to kick in... So I drank more wine. Which had a lovely effect after 3 weeks of stone cold alcohol sobriety.

Nothing untoward happened at the auction. We had a pleasant time, but the experience didn't go away. About 2:00 AM, the message was more of a "now, seriously, I am displeased, and going to express that displeasure dramatically for a while" feeling.

And there you have it. It was the arugula. Mystery solved.

The end.

So the PT wasn't as bad as I feared. I actually have more mobility and strength than is the norm- probably because I am such a cussed nasty-natured thing, and get all pissy about not being able to do something. So I do it. As well as I can. And it hurts. So what. It is supposed to hurt. Grrrrrrr. But it appears to have an advantageous effect in this situation.

I will admit that this week at work, despite being a tad slow, has thoroughly kicked my ass. But I also attribute that to lack of sleep. The PT lady gave me some suggestions that really helped in that dept. last night. So there is hope. And glory.

Not to make this a blog about my shoulder though. That is boring. How about the strangest dream ever? I know, I have promised on occasion never to share those- but broken that promise on occasion. And this one is blasted odd. So, it's about 30 years ago, and Snoop Dog is having a threesome with my parents in the basement. And I am all pissed off because I want him for myself (not the 30 years ago me, but the now me- PARADOX!). I woke up from that one.....man....don't know what the FUCK that one is all about. Between the parents thing, the Snoop thing, and the strange time differential, I am totally boggled. In the head. And no, there were no naughty goings on witnessed when I was a child. Very well protected there, thank you. This was just about strangeness. Probably the Krispy Kreme doghnut that I ate in the late afternoon (Bismark- officially their fattest doghnut at 350 calories- looked it up after I ate it). I'll blame that. And shudder when I remember the rest....the things in my head are awfully Boschlike of late. And I'm even off of the really effective drugs now. Riddle me that.

Am too tired to do much writing. Seriously, this week is kicking my ass. But I will start PT today, and only have one more day to suffer through tomorrow. Then I can sleep. Perchance to dream. And if those dreams are as interesting as the ones last night, it will be fitful sleep, indeed.

Gotta go. To work.

Am alive, reasonably well, but tired. Very, very tired. Probably a combo of being feeble still, not sleeping really well on vicodin, and just work in general.

The shoulder feels icky- deep burny itchiness.

PT starts on Thursday.

Over and out.

by request

Dirk Niewoehner was born in Helena, MT in 1945. His family was from White Sulfur Springs- a very small farming town kind of near Helena. His father was an attorney with a violent streak. Now here is where it gets interesting.

According to IMDB, Dirk's dad died when he was 18 and he took it very hard. Well, there were circumstances that would make it hard to take. Seems that the old man beat the shit out of the wife and kids on a regular basis. Seems that it got worse with time. Don't remember from the story I was told if he was a drinker- coulda been. Coulda just been mean as hell. Dunno. This was told many, many years ago. And second hand.

So, one day or night- you decide which atmosphere you prefer- dad is raising hell and pounding on mom. Dirk's brother had enough of these goings on, and shot dad to death. Probably with a well-used hunting rifle. And that was that. So yes, getting over that would be hard. Hard indeed.

But really, it is kind of a typical story. Plenty like it. The only unusual element is the life Dirk had later. Something to do with Hollywood. Something to do with Battlestar Gallactica. Something to do with a Team called A.

Remember though- the details on my end are sketchy, so don't sue me.

Ok- I am sort of back. They typing kind of hurts a bit, so most likely won't be long-winded.

Valentine's day sucked. Officially and on the record. They used a general anesthesia- which I really didn't expect. Much like the Spanish Inquisition. They also gave me a nerve block. That is a truly nasty experience. Having a guy digging in my neck for a nerve with a needle, then sending shocks down my arm...eck. But at least it kept my entire right arm lifeless and numb for 16 hours. That's something, right?

Felt sick and icky for at least 2 days after. Just because. And the drugs worked ok. But I discovered that like Codeine, I can't sleep very well on percocets. Alas. So I have been reading novels whilst doped up into the wee hours every night. Because it seems to help.

Overall, the good Dr. is happy with the progress- I have these little triumphs. I dried my hair properly yesterday. I was able to clean the cat box. I still can't use my right hand for some of the regular things, but it will happen.

I saw pictures of the inside of my shoulder. It was more of a mess than expected. I had somehow (and I just can't figure this one out) managed to eliminate the connection between the ligament and the front of my shoulder. Gone. So now it is back. And the prognosis is good. Seriously, though, I just can't remember originally injuring my shoulder that badly. This is kind of scary. Like I'm a replicant, and they didn't plant that particular memory. Bad scifi reference, but it has been a lonnnnnng week. Dude, I've got a lot of tables.

Other than that, nothing to report. Nothing. Just sitting. Or reading. Or napping. Or trying to shave my armpit. Or trying to wash my hair. Or taping plastic bags to my shoulder. Or talking soulfully to the cats. Or monitoring my email on the sly- and I will not succumb and log in! I will not!!!

Crikey. I go back to work on Monday. It ought to be....interesting.

And now I hurt. Bye bye.

Be out for a while. I'll try and report in from the trenches, but am not sure what kind of drugs I'll be on exactly. If my hands feel like oven mits, I won't type. If my arm ends up on the cutting room floor, I certainly won't write. But...I'll give it a try in a couple of days.

Think at least one happy thought, eat a cookie, pet a puppy, smile at a child in the checkout line, and be a decent person. That's all I ask in my absence.

If all else fails, just have a good beer. Or glass of wine. That would suffice.

My dad used to listen to a lot of Johnny Cash. On 8 track, if you will. We would take loooong roadtrips across the state to visit relatives, all to the backbeat of Johnny. We would drive to Utah, Arizona, Washington, all with Johnny in the car.

How high IS the water Mama? I don't know if that question ever got fully answered. But it was among the better songs of youth.

And it applies to my world at the moment. How high is the water? Well, it's 2 foot high, and rising. And there you have it. The floods are coming, and that's just the way it is. Almost wish I could go back to bed and sleep it off. But that's not on the agenda today. Not in the itinerary. Not in the powerpoint deck. (yes, people, a powerpoint presentation in my world is called a deck. Sigh.)

But not to worry. It's not really despair. Not really fear, just kind of an acceptance that the next few days will officially suck. But then it will be different. Might be worse, might be better. But it will be different.

And right now I have a buggy eyed cat staring at me, and must go chase him around the house. Because it makes me laugh, and that is of the utmost today.

The girl slumped against the picnic table. She was wearing her sexy top, the one she insisted her mother buy from Tempo. The effect was ruined by the blue workshirt that she wore over the little tank top. It was all because of her skin. It totally made being pretty impossible. And today was supposed to be the day they noticed her. She did her hair perfectly. But then noticed the line of acne on her right shoulder. Right where the sexy shirt stopped, and her skin began. It was so ugly. Just like everything else. So ugly. And there was nothing she could do about it. It just ruined the effect. And it was hot out. So the blue shirt had pit stains. Because she couldn't help that either.

Nothing was going to work, she realized. She was going to remain invisible. And no amount of hair preparation was going to make her pretty like Brooke Shields in the magazines. She could be tall, and she could have pretty hair, yes. But the rest didn't follow. And so she slumped against the picnic table and picked at the layer of brown paint covering words carved deeply into the wood.

She wouldn't tell her mother about the unsuccessful shirt. But she wouldn't wear it ever again, either.

I was thinking about all the things I collected as a child. Very young, I might add.

I collected:
pretty feathers
rocks- especially agates that my grandfather cut and polished (still have those)
funny dolls in Indian costumes
dolls in quasi-international costumes
paper dolls- including ones my mother drew (sure wish I had kept those)
pictures of pretty women in fashionable dresses that I drew (ditto above)
some stuffed animals- mainly teddy bears
and other strange assorted things that drew my attention- I still have most of those, too.

Funny- with all of that assorted crap in my life, a pretty large batch of it all is still with me. And my poor husband wonders where it all came from. Such a history.

My reasoning? Well the emotional attachment dwelled upon before.

But at the time, all of those things really got the synapses firing. I remember learning about rocks when my grandfather gave me a bunch of tumbled stones. And then I got a bunch of library books about art when I noticed the cover of one of them looked like my drawing (I believe it was a children's art history book about ancient Egypt). So there were causes and effects. Not a bad thing. Just need to divest of some of the accoutrements at this point. Because my bookshelves not only ache from the weight of books, but also look like a magpie roosted for a while.

And crikey, I almost forgot about Dawn and Barbie. They were important. Pivotal, really. When I wasn't on my bike, or running around in the back yard, I was concocting elaborate and endless dramas with them as the stars. I had a couple of treasured friends with whom I played these games. On and on and on. I still also wish that I had written these down. I'm pretty sure they would be full of insight into what an 8 year old considers important. But there again, the boat has floated.

I was just sharing in another forum. And what I disclosed is that for some reason (which I can guess), I have emerged as tech geek sugar. Now this is really, really funny. The cool side effect? I can get help desk geeks to assist in person when I ask the right one. If, for example, I IM my main tech guy and start making BBC America references, specifically about Top Gear, and if I start quoting Jeremy Clarkson, he is mine for the taking. It is a really cool superpower.

But only if used in small doses. I made the mistake of being overly (by his estimation) friendly to a tech geek in another building that I was in. He made very inappropriate comments after that. All because I said "Good Morning." Too much for him to handle, I guess.

I had a training class where I was one of only 3 women in the class. And boy, the ratio of tecchie to marketing/sales type was about 3:1. And I was very popular. It was cool. Until I realized that none of these fellows were a) my type, b) overly concerned about hygiene or clothing in general, and c) well socialized. Not to mention the whole I am married thing. But it's nice to dangle out there when Kman gets in a mood- hey, pal. I have options, don't you know! And they have some mighty earning power hereabouts. They can afford a Segway! (one of them does ride one in my neighborhood- he wears a gold bike helmet, lord help us all). Or a Prius. Or a really rockin gaming system. Heh.

And he responds with, "I'm not stoppin you." Which basically ends the discussion. Because I am stopping me. For all the right reasons. So, be free little tecchie boys! Be free. You will find her out there- somewhere....and she won't be me.

So last night there were 2 vivid dreams. Not VIVID dreams, like on the pay per view porn channel. But one involved saving my mother from gypsies. And the other involved F1 driver Fernando Alonso, and was actually quite funny.

So that's that. Something in the air.

And no, I don't choose to elaborate what I know about pay per view porn. It's not important.
(or imporntant...heh.heh.heh- I crack myself up)

So I am currently stocking up on movies on the DVR (Tivo broke, we are on to new technology), trashy novels and other things to distract me when the surgery happens. We have entered count down mode. And I have to train Kman to do my hair properly. And learn not to carry things with my right arm for a while. Hey, it'll be an adventure.

Next up, why the hell was Heath Ledger on Oxycontin???? What the fuck??? I thought that was reserved for cancer sufferers and Courtney Love. What a farce.

Other than that, I got nothin. Just gotta go to work and try and find meaning in it all. Some days more than others. I am suspecting that today is going to be one of those challenging days.

The dreams have been spectacularly vivid. And appear to center around unresolved things. I appear to be resolving them, albeit unconsciously. Or not. The magic 8 ball would be unclear.

There was one that was more sci fi than anything else. Cool as hell, unless you study the subtext too closely within the context of my head. Then you see the dilemma. And you see the cracks around the edges. She has...issues.

The next one was kind of a Natty Bumpo kind of thing. Only the heroes weren't the settlers- they weren't included. Only the Indians. And I was there. And it was another one of those unsettling unresolved things that wouldn't matter to anyone but myself.

And the latest installment was about escaping from a monster in the basement with my mother. Everyone else got out alive, for the most part. But when I woke up, I realized that the only other person who escaped with my mother and I is a ghost. Which is kind of upsetting, because I know him- there again within the context of the dream and my head.

Now why the hell am I sharing all of this? Very good question. No fucking clue. Kind of selfish of me, really. Inflicting this kind of crap upon people. But there you have it. There be monsters inside, and sometimes they cry to be released. And if that happens only in dreams, I don't see the enormity of the problem.

so, he was a small man. Smaller than you would expect, right? but with a huge head. Fucking huge. Surprising really, you'd think he'd be smarter with all of that real estate to be filled and all.

Huge head. And look at him now. Maybe he's just hydrocephalic, and the extra space is water. Or in his case, beer. Or something like that. But sweet Jesus, that was a huge head.

And then there was the girl with him. Dressed like a fucking whore. Some kind of fringy jackety thing. Not like she fit in or anything. shorts with heels. Always reminds me of hookers, that. shorts with heels. Not sad like shorts with nylons. That is pitiful. But shorts with heels.

The two of them. Made quite a spectacle of themselves. Only a few of the locals recognized them. And of those few, only one or two cared. The rest I think filed it away for later.

The boy died alone. In a crowd. But alone.
Probably more accurate to call him a man, but really he had the last
vestiges of youth. And a roll of hundreds attached to his belt.
The crowd howled. They wanted to see help. They wanted to see life.
They didn't bargain for death on a night out.
Neither did he.
Were his last thoughts of regret?
Or was he lonely?
Did he know what was happening?
Did he hear the flapping of wings...see grey mist...a bright white light?
Did he hear the crowd growing angry to see him lying in the puddle of blood
while the police kept them at bay?
Did he feel anger at their ineffectual protest?
Or was he so beyond caring about all of that?
And what of the police who were so jaded that it was
beyond any one of them to sit and hold his hand for the last few minutes he had left.
What of them.

A guy from work was telling me about his weekend yesterday. Seems he saw a shooting and witnessed the victim die. He was pretty shaken up- but his first impulse was to go out and buy a gun. Not where I would go. But whatever.

The story was grim. What bothered me, and I didn't follow up in questions, just because he was still pretty upset, was that the victim died without any human contact. He just bled to death behind a police cordon. There were probably aid workers on the scene- I can't imagine there not being any of those. But no one was there to hold his hand and say it would be ok. Not that it matters to the dead guy now. But I hate the idea of anyone, even a punk thug (and this guy was apparently one of those), dying on the pavement like that. Must've been a priest in a former life. Or something.

Other than that, bummer that I didn't buy a shitton of Yahoo stocks yesterday.

So we watched "Superbad" last night. I actually thought it was funny as hell, but probably didn't get the full experience since I grew up...a girl, and all. But here is the best part (in my opinion).

I was watching a high school movie starring (well, featuring) one of the people I went to high school with. Actually took some classes with her. For some reason her Hollywood career didn't take off like it should've- but she has been in a few things lately that I have been running across. Not in a stalky way, but by accident. Like the only time ever that I have seen "Law & Order", she was the perp. And there you have it.

But the movie was fun. And it had a nice edge to it- by that I mean, not horribly edgy, and just nice. Our thin hero reminds me of Kman. (notice, I have made the upgrade? Boyz to men and all that) Nice, and very, very funny. With those big brown eyes.....swoon.....
Kman, not the kid in the movie- I am not disturbed....seriously.

Other than that not much happening. Yet.

Yes, I am working remotely today. And there is a double meaning there. Remote and remote. Probably a triple meaning.

Suffice it to say that it is very quiet by comparison to my usual stew of noise and action.

And the cats aren't interested in a rousing chorus of "Spider Pig, spider pig, does whatever spider pig does." They just look at me and blink. Not team players.

Now I have to go nurse the email. It's what I do.

I thought that back in the day I made a rule about drunken blogging. Well, what do they say about rules and being broken? I have plenty of experience being broken.
But not brokeback. Never. Brokeback. Because, quite frankly, I can quit you. Anytime I want. Just ask anyone. It can happen.

And this isn't necessarily drunken. Not on a Monday night. Not at 7:00 PM. Just a couple of glasses of wine to appease the muse. Because today, quite frankly, coffee didn't do the trick. She was feeling....particular. Probably a tad out of sorts about being required to do her business elsewhere. Neglected around here, don't you see.

So in actuality no rules being broken. Nothing to see here, move along.

This weekend we tried to watch Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band. It was too difficult. We gave up and went to bed. Even with the ever sparkly but cotton-candy haired Peter Frampton. He tried soooo hard. And Maurice died for your sins. You know it. Own it.

This weekend I tried so hard to burst the bounds. Professionally. I came up with a perfect paper. But it wasn't really. I found out today. And that's ok. But there is still something rotten in this state of Denmark, and I WILL discover what it is. Just haven't had enough water under that bridge. And don't know the right password. I will, though. That's a solemn oath. I don't take those lightly. Ask anybody.

Had a snow day. Until the afternoon, when it was possible to actually go to the store. But there was snow. Now ice. Later more snow. I am bored. More wine? No. Out of that. Forgot to stock up. Might have to drink Scotch. But not delighted about the prospect, because don't think I will enjoy as much as I should. So probably won't. Speaking in strange shorthanded fashion, and having some difficulty hitting right keys....perhaps rules are being broken. Know when to say when. Otherwise bad things happen. To good people. There was a book written. Not that I bought it- self-help lost its glamour when I tried to stomach A Road Less Traveled at the recommendation of a lunatic ex-boyfriend (Miji for those of you who know the code). Purer bullshit hath never been produced outside of the stockyards. Just plain not applicable. So fuck that noise.

And now I think I must depart, good night sweet prince, say hello to the wife and kids.

Things I have:

A firmed up date for surgery. Think Valentine's day. And pray for Kboy's sake that the pain pills are sufficient.

Crazy assed red chested woodpeckery birds pounding on my roof in the morning. Even on the weekends. To quote former President Clinton, "For Shame!"

A date with destiny in the form of a game designer on Monday. Less said about that right now, probably for the better- suffice it to say, I will be doing some major homework over the weekend.

An enduring and lingering dislike for Tom Cruise that was only intensified by reading the new unauthorized biography. Tom, you are dead to me. I still haven't seen "Top Gun." Don't think it's gonna happen now, either.

A husband who has currently gone missing. I could call and see where he is, but it's better this way. A touch of mystery. Actually, I suspect that he went to the book store for coffee and a magazine peruse. Because that's the way he rolls.

A new haircut. Because it was time. And when I start contemplating wearing a pony tail in public as a remedy to bad hair, it is a dire thing. Just like wearing workout togs in public. Not gonna fly, babycakes.

And that's all I can think of for right now. So it'll have to be enough.

"I think you can be clever without being crass."
"But I should push it."

"I still think it's possible."

"One of the examples was of a pair of Nikes with a graphic of a dildo going into some chick."

"Right. Crass. But I still think you are more clever than that."

"We're going for edgy."

Things we discuss over morning coffee.

Note to self: two large meals in one day, even if they do commemorate Kboy's birthday, are a bad idea. Especially after over 6 months of not eating like that. Ah, the pain.

And it is probably about time to stop calling him "the boy." He is 39. Perhaps time to come up with a more apt moniker.

Today is MRI Monday. I think it should be a new kind of game. Or something. Like Caturday. Or Naked Thursday.

I got a very strange email this weekend from some chick on a fishing expedition on Classmates.com. No, I won't share some of the particulars, except to say I am unclear as to her motives in seeking some of the people she's looking for, and I haven't seen one of them in over 20 years. The other more like 35. So gonna ignore it. Plus she used sketchy grammar and spelling, which is always a problem for me. Such a snob. It could be an elaborate hoax. I think that the one dude died, anyway.

On the complaints list, Kboy went to Anaheim this last week for a trade show, and brought back a couple of t shirts for me. That was nice. What sucks is that he was around bona fide rock stars and didn't stand in line for hours to get them to sign stuff. For me. To hang at my desk at work. He started this precedent by getting me a signed Peter Frampton picture. His fault that I have these expectations, really. But he had the lead singer from Yes at his booth, and didn't bother...sigh....I shall whine some more. And he was in the convention center with a couple of the more prominent members of Kiss. Which would be kind of a cool addition to Peter on my wall. I'm just saying. I guess the Yes guy is kind of a freak. And the line for the Kiss guys was a tad longish. But seriously, what the hell else did he have going on??? And it would be in the name of love and all that. Pay it forward, chump- I vacuumed the house yesterday in honor of your bloody birthday!

And to wrap this up, am currently watching a Korean soap opera on DVD. Hotelier is the honorable story of a young hotel manager in Seoul who is loved by two men. And has to make a decision. In 10 hours or less of rather tortured and very beige hotel goodness. Seriously. Beige and gold. The whole thing. Beige and gold. With very soft music. Reminds me of the spa at the gym. Only the lighting is better on the tv show.

Ah, just let the anger push you beyond that hurdle. Again and again.

An hour on a treadmill, climbing no where quickly.

The only way to endure is a combination of NPR news/weather and information. But at the very end, when it's become stupid difficult, break out the "Hell's Bells."

Because nothing is quite as motivating as the Australian screeching "Hell's Bells...Satan's coming for you..." to keep you moving on the treadmill. Because if you stop, guess who is coming for you?

Not the nice little Indian lady on the treadmill to your left.

Or the nice little farty Asian lady on the treadmill to your right (please, remember, we can smell those, nice little lady. And if there is something wrong, you should probably either be in a less enclosed room, or at home.)

But then maybe the farts are supposed to evoke Satan more thoroughly. Kind of a multi-media piece. But I don't think she knows I am listening to AC/DC. Or angry.

So follow that up with "Immigrant Song," and you have the perfect denouement for the most evil workout I can come up with. Call it self-punishment. Paying of the dues. Righting the wrongs.

Is it just me?

Or does anyone else have Christmas presents still in boxes sitting around the house? It could be that we are just overwhelmingly slothful. But I am looking at one. And it's cool. I just haven't taken the time to unpack and set it up. I have opened the box. But hell.

I still have boxes of stuff downstairs that I haven't gone through- papers mostly. I have this phobia about papers. And throwing them away. Wonder where that came from??? Without revealing too many sources, it is somewhat of a family trait.

So that might be the only resolution that I make. Belated and all. Go through the boxes. Throw away the crap I no longer need. Figure out a better storage plan for the crap that I do need. I am guessing that return address labels for West Seattle aren't in the second category. But that's the kind of crap I tend to keep.

And I'll set up the Christmas present thingy. Because yes, I feel the guilt. If you prick me, I will bleed. So please don't. It'll only piss me off.

Not much time to actually think and write- work stuff is going on. Full on politics. Sad co-workers. Mean co-workers. Stressed people.

I did get confirmation yesterday that the surgery will happen. The Dr was good- very confident that this can be fixed easily, and quickly. With a minimum of fuss. Which is his job. But the place was like a Seattle sports museum. With ballet dancers included. So I figure that my shoulder is much less of a challenge than re-building a pitcher's shoulder after it is destroyed. Cake walk, no doubt.

Next is my very first MRI. Next week.

In my dream I was singing Courtney Love again. And feeling like the rock star.
It's never really like that, though. I am made to understand on a daily basis that I
am not a rock star.
It's ok, really.

It's the time though, that I am beginning to see what my choices have made. And
how many of them are permanent. That sense of endless possibility is dying.
Probably not a huge problem- I hung onto that for too long, no doubt.
It's ok, really.

Because there's not a damned thing I can do about it. The relentlessness of the process
is revealing. And Revelling. Mainly because those of us about to die salute you.
And we're all in that club, and it's not a lonely place. It's what you make of it.
If you want loneliness, just think that you're not going to die someday. That'll do the
trick. Because all of the rest of us will be leaving on a jet plane. Don't know when
we'll be back again. Probably never.

So sod off, indeed. Sod is what it's really all about. Wouldn't it be interesting if global
warning was due to putting us in air-tight containers rather than just planting us in
an open ditch? I do know that it causes some kind of financial burden. But otherwise, can't
really pull much cause and effect out of the mix.

Only if you were to build on a cemetery, there would probably be some problems with
nasty chemical leakage. Enough said. Bad idea. Don't do it. Teenage Suicide- don't do it.
The song really does remain the same.

And in my dreams I am a rock star. Not iron man, but a rock star. It's bona fide.

Today the obsession is with sweaters. Not sure why, only that the strongest impulse I have is to crawl back in bed and be warm. I think it has to do with winter. And with politics. And with work. And with the combo package of the last two. Things are happening, and I am trying to ignore the whole blasted thing. Has no direct effect on me, and it's hard to give a shit.

So sweaters. Lots and lots of sweaters. They are in my thoughts. I have never knitted an adult-sized one. Only for a baby. It was fun. I should try. I should. I should.

Ok, distraction isn't working so well. Back to politics. And work. No escaping. Which figures. What did they tell us all about being careful about wishing for things? And something about wishing being horses and beggars riding, or something, something.

And the words are just flying off the shelf. Like water bottles with a hurricane coming. I haven't figured out why every time there is a storm warning here, people act like that. There is a run on things that make no sense to me. Like milk. If the power goes out, your milk will spoil in the fridge, Einstein. Or Eisenstein. (heh heh heh- now it's on to nonsense.) And the power doesn't make the water cease to come out of the faucets. I don't get it. Again.

And there is really nothing else to say. The words might be flying, but they aren't pertinent or particularly interesting. Just words. On a page. Signifying not a hell of a lot. Someone else no doubt said it better. Which is typical. And probably appropriate.

So when silence isn't necessarily golden- it might just be grumpy. And not feel like sharing.

It happens in the best of families, but probably occurs more frequently in the worst of families.

And that's why we hate Dickens. Too simple. The decision last night was that if he were writing today, he would be another Jerry Bruckheimer. No nuance, only action. And very simple messages. Ah, but knowing the audience- priceless, no? But seriously, the consistent and simply gratuitous use of coincidence? Come on.

And that's why we love Dostoevsky. Plenty of nuance there. And ambiguity. And the message might be blazing red hot obvious, but then again, maybe not. But definitely not an action hero kind of guy.

And we love Fitzgerald. And we love Capote. And we love Maugham.

This was all part of a discussion last night. Before going to sleep. Because when is there ever a better time to talk literature?

News of the day-

you know the shoulder, the one I keep hurting? Welll.........it seems that the answer isn't more wine. It's surgery. Cool, eh?

Really, really bums me out.

Only spin I can put on it is that at least there is a solution and the Dr didn't just gently tell me to fucking deal with it. She actually used the word "gimpy" in describing what can happen if I re-injure it and cause nerve damage. Gotta love a Dr who uses the word gimpy.

Fuck. Fuckity fuck fuck.

I see the surgeon next Monday. More to follow.

My current read on this...thing

I have this friend, see. Or at least I thought that I did. Well, maybe not so much.

She was having professional problems. I listened. I offered up what wisdom I had. Then I got the cold shoulder. Seriously cold shoulder. Went from hearing from her via im or email or phone daily, to nothing. Well, two contacts in 3 weeks. Yes, there were holidays in there. But this is also the woman who wanted to look after our cats. Luckily for the cats we had someone else lined up. Because I suspect that they wouldn't have been horribly healthy if she were involved and in her silent, stealth mode.

Now the part of me that I like more says that it's totally her problem, whatever it is. Indeed. But the other part of me thinks that I must've screwed up somewhere. And then there's the denial princess who thinks that there might just be too much general business.

But seriously, from daily chats to nothing? Right. I thought so. Now comes the next step. I don't think I choose to take one. I don't want someone in my life who handles things so ... poorly. And can't even be relied upon to communicate if she has a problem with something. Not interested in reading that many tea leaves. And if she's a flake at this point, there's really not much hope for a future in the friendship. And there you have it.

Moving on.

Kboy cracked open the Maker's Mark last night. We even have a couple of official Maker's Mark glasses. So we had some, and it was good. I only sipped a touch- had overstayed my welcome in Whiskey city earlier in the week, and am trying to be good. And had nasty, and lovely food for lunch- too many calories to count...math hurts sometimes.

And this weekend, boxes await. It is finally time to start with the one kind-of resolution that Kboy and I share. We want to eliminate many of the assorted boxes in the basement. To be replaced in the future by boxes that currently live in Montana. Filled with our stuff. To be eliminated. Basically it has been easier to just shove crap in boxes and forget all about it. But that technique isn't conducive to moving a lot. And we tend to do that. So it's time. I think that I'll tackle books and ceramics first. Then we'll see about the boxes of papers. They are my bete noir. I have an absolute phobia about throwing out papers. See, there are likely very important things in there. Very important. So important that if I throw them out, we will suffer tremendously some day...you get the idea...

And now back to our feature film- work! And after a night of restlessness, courtesy of strained back muscles. And all because I went to the gym. Not part of a New Year's resolution, I remind you.

Suck it up, cowgirl. Take a handful of something and call me in the morning. Which has broken. Just like something somethinnnnng. Call that fool Cat, and you might get esploded real good.

Yesterday was all about the shopping. For new things to fit my shrinking self- tired of jeans that are now pull-ons. Tired of other tatty clothing items. All destined for the dumpster- not interested in sharing them a la the leg warmers. Sorry.

Sharp segue to Kenya. How's that for unhappy? And downright silly. Who throws a shoe, seriously? No, nothing funny there. Not at all. Just inhumanity of humanity. And overwhelming stupidity. Would love to think that it couldn't happen here, but then remember church bombings not too long ago...

Left turn at politics. Because it's where all the cool kids hang out. But not really. Just reporters. Hey, did I share that I got a new Zune for Christmas from work? Yeah, well I got to listen to NPR while working out last night! How fucking cool is that! Answer- not in the least, babycakes. Another nail in the coffin of cool. All Things Considered is the anti-cool.

Now it is time to go. Be well, do good work and keep in touch. And if I EVER quote Garrison again, you have my full permission to bitch slap me to oblivion. Hello oblivion, how are the wife and kids? Pa dump ump.

He says I'm funny and cute

When I'm drunk. Which is certainly more celebratory than saying that I am a mean drunk. But I keep replaying the tapes and thinking, "did I make a total ass out of myself?" I'm told not, but it's probably the dying brain cells in their death throes causing all of the ruckus.

I just remember announcing to all present that I have the prettiest toes in the room. And considering that I was the only girl there, it was likely true. Then I showed them. My toes. In all their red glittery splendor. Thankfully the polish wasn't all chipped and ratty looking- that would be embarrassing. Like exposing my bare feet isn't.... I guess I am lucky not to be more of a hussy- it could've devolved to exposing other...assets...and I would be cringing. Still. I guess feet aren't so bad- it's not the 17th century.

I am wondering if his funny and cute comment is just meant to butter me up...or if he really means it. Boys. Who can read them?

Things I can guarantee

I don't really believe in resolutions- at least not the fly-by-night New Year's kind. Those are almost always doomed to failure- something about being overly ambitious.

But the following list is of things that I can guarantee I will not do next year. Or any future year, for that matter.

1. I will not wear leg warmers. I found a pair from High School (not the musical, but the highly regrettable reality) in a box with some sweaters that I brought back from the storage depot at my Mother's ranch. They will be appropriately disposed of. Unless anyone wants them- any takers?

2. I will not wear gaucho pants. Or any other similarly cropped pants. Makes my overly developed calves look like tree trunks. (thank you track and field- for the calves, I mean) I haven't looked good in those since 5th grade, and even then it was sketchy. I thought I looked good. But in pictures, reality is a little different. But I was in 5th grade, so was a cute kid anyway. Not so much now.

3. I will not wear heels over 2". Old lady back. That's that.

4. I will not attempt to drink 9 gin and tonics in one sitting. That was the last time I thought I was going to die in the bathroom. It was years ago, and I haven't forgotten the pain. Or the 5 voice mails I left on Kboy's cell phone. All about how I was going to die. He was out of our service area. Which is good. He didn't need to be there. It was just my own little "situation" to handle, and there wasn't anything he could do to contribute.

5. I will not break our pillow rule again. We travel with our pillows. It helps with the sleeping in different beds on road trips. At least one thing is constant that way. Our pillows are nice. They are our friends. They were missed during the last road trip.

6. And apparently I will not be forgetting the Bon Jovi lyrics to Dead or Alive anytime soon. They are still echoing in my head. Gotta thank the friends for that one. Oh yeah. Because I am a cowboy. And on a steel horse I ride. Fuck.......meh.

That should do. I can't really think of any other hard and fast rules that I have. I'm sure others will occur to me, but some are far too personal to post on the internet. And others are just plain embarrassing. You all don't need to know all the stupid/silly stuff that I have done and don't care to repeat in this lifetime. That's all.

Be careful tonight, and have fun! Wear a condom. Don't drive angry.

Back but lazy as sin

Yes, I will embrace sloth, my personal favorite of the 7 deadly sins. Just because it is. Love me my sloth.

We are back. And it was fun. Exhausting as hell. Over 2000 miles driven. And we still like eachother. Actually, we are even speaking still. Nicely. I think it's the litmus of a successful relationship. Also a good test run for an unsuccessful one.

Small things- saw the hole in the ground that was my Grandparent's house. Cried a tad, but not as difficult as I feared. No going back now. Looks kind of permanent to me.

Saw the remaining Grandmother- she recognized me, or at least faked it very well. It was hard, but not as hard as I thought.

Played Rock Star- and have the dubious hallmark of being both:
a) the only one of us there with the attitude and vocal chords to very effectively pull off singing Hole.
and b) the only one with the vocal range and age to remember the lyrics and tune of Boston's Foreplay/Long Time.
And thanks to the game, I cannot get Bon Jovi's cowboy song out of my head. And I am NOT happy about that. Fucking steel horse. I ride. Wanted. Dead or Alive....I keep making up my own lyrics, and laughing to myself. Out loud of course. Because that is the kind of wing-nut crazy I am.

The cats appear to be happy to see us- they keep following me from room to room screaming until I sit down. Then they are in the lap. I feel love. It will wear off. Then they will be back to mostly ignoring us.

Got a very large bottle of single malt, and of of Maker's Mark for presents from an astute relative. And some nice beer from another. Gotta get my drink on. Now watch- it will take me years to drink the whiskeys. Because I do that. Hoard and preserve.

We did bring more of our stored crap back. Just part of whittling away at the accumulated boxes of thrift store treasures that we purchased back in school. We just have GOT to get on ebay soon.

And to round up my lazy assed post, ah, to hell with it. I'm done. Time for a nap.

Will be very quiet around here for a while...
going to another place.

Will be back in about a week. Probably with an update, and plenty of steam to let off.

Love to you all, Peace out.

Oh- one more thing to enjoy about the holidays-

I work in a building adjacent to one of the major upscale malls in the area. Hey fun!!!

Added to the list of things I can't seem to do right lately:

sleep without dramatic injury
drink coffee or wine (keep spilling on white clothing...wtf)
eat a meal without cheese in it
leave the cookies alone
give solid career advice
operate the new remote control for our new cable system- where the hell is Comedy Central?
not complain and/or whine about everything
navigate traffic without wishing death and dismemberment upon a select handful of other drivers
deal with the valet parkers at work without wishing death and dismemberment upon them
deal with the crappy Christmas music in the elevators at work without finding myself humming it later- Curse you "I saw mommy kissing Santa Claus!"

And I'm spent.

Dumbest thing of the day-

at 2:30 AM, rolled over funny and partially dislocated my shoulder.

at 2:30 AM, after screaming and crying, popped the arm back securely into the socket, and left the bed in search of pain pills and an ice pack.

4:30 AM, went back to bed for achy, breaky sleep.

No upper body workout at the gym for me for a while. I have it on authority.

There's a reoccuring dream that I have had lately. It revolves around a fireplace. The fireplace is gone now- it became mud about a month ago. If I could, I would've chiseled it out by hand myself and kept it God knows where, but safe and mine. Not an option. To add to the lengthy list of non-options. To be cryptic, the fireplace is key. Or core. It was the center of something complicated. Not just a house, more of a stand-in for the house and what the house represented.

And that's not being very clear. Because I am not in a clarity kind of mood. More of a muddled mess than usual. Not clear. If there were a psychic in the house, she or he would no doubt have trouble sorting the cards. It is the nature of things sometimes, right? Lack of clarity.

And others around me are finding their clarity daily. Yesterday a friend roared like a lion. And I am proud of her. She finally struck back at someone who had been underestimating and oppressing her for over two years. She scored a direct hit, and there is nothing legal that the other person can do. And this makes me happy. I can be happy by proxy.

I don't have any roaring needed at the moment. And it might come as no surprise, but I don't usually hesitate to roar when needed. That could be part of the lack of clarity. Nothing to be pissed about. So is this what is considered peace? I kind of doubt it. I somehow imagine peace as being more substantial. Less of a muddled attitude. Less of a casting about.

And no doubt, again, I am overthinking things. Because that is another game. Up there with the endless speechifying in my head.

And overall this silliness should be put aside, and I need to just get on with it.

I want to shout at them, "Stop talking past me, I am in the room, and I am listening."
But it would be inappropriate.
And I know that the anger that I feel isn't really about them.
It's more of a memory of anger and frustration of yore.
Because people are idiots.
And they fail to realize that the children around them are listening.
And those children probably have a very good idea of what is going on.
And those children may very well have some ideas of what they want and need.
But no one asks.
And it's easier to underestimate their cognitive abilities.
Than it is to have an actual honest discussion about reality.
Protection doesn't work, people.
Neither do lies.
They will come back and bite you in the ass every time.
Guaranfuckingteed.
If not tomorrow, then in twenty years.
Because the young don't necessarily forget.
And the buried anger can and will erupt in strange and uncompromising ways.
Enjoy.
And if anyone wonders why I have no children, re-read the above.
Again and again, until you get it.
Then ask my dentist- she knows.
She told me to my face.
It was the strangest bared-soul conversation I have ever had with a stranger.
It helps that she's Chinese.
It helps that she was telling me the story.
And that the story wasn't about me directly.
But it was my story too.
Kind of a creepy experience while getting my mouth x-rayed.
But there you have it.
Enjoy.
And while I haven't always depended upon the kindness of strangers,
I do expect it.
Because even though everything above is true, for the most part
the unkindness has come from closer to the fold.
And closer to the chest.
And closer to the mind.
Often from inside the skull.
I think that's the other definition of skullduggery.
Or am I thinking of skullfuggery?
Perhaps.
Enjoy.

Now, that is over

I put on our holiday lunch yesterday. For the "Leadership Team" to which I belong. I'm really unclear as to what I am leading. And who I am leading. But I'll stick around- mainly because I like the people and will drink the free hooch and eat the free food. And I report to the big guy who pays the bill. But this leadership team thingy- it is odd. All the privilege, none of the power. Gotta love that.

So for those of you who were wondering- admit it, I know you were- I did not get loaded. Only one drink. Lovely, lovely single malt- from a list of nice single malts. I didn't splurge on the spendiest one- that would be crass. And mama didn't raise no crass.

And now I have to go back and try and muster up enthusiasm for all and sundry, when I am now officially in Christmas break mode. Only I really don't get one of those anymore. And my body has never fully gotten off of the school schedule. Because, once again, I am an idiot and stayed in the system too long. Trained myself well, I did.

Ah well. Tomorrow we get our new tv system. The Tivo finally died. And it has been a black period in our lives. Thus the Twin Peaks discs have been on rotation. Next is the first season of Rome. God knows, I love a touch of ultraviolence. Especially when it includes togas.

I got thinking about this after reading a poem a friend wrote. It was chock full of guilt. And I just started thinking.

About the things that I have never gotten over, and those that I have. And how young I was at the time.

Funny, the really heavy blows, and the ones that I still carry had to do with things that boggled the minds and discombobulated the adults around me. Not the petty incidental crap of everyday disappointment. Just the biggies- death, alcoholism, rejection, loneliness, etc. The kinds of things that I still deal with in one way or another today. The small stuff really didn't matter all that much- I was surprisingly resilient.

I still remember bits and pieces that culminated in larger things- patterns. But the smaller things aren't all that important- just the patterns. Because they were how I learned. And how I behaved. Until I realized that they were patterns, and I could basically change them with some amount of effort. At least some of them. Not necessarily all, because hard wiring is always risky to play with- involves ripping out drywall and lots of other expensive reworking. And there comes a point where I am not interested in hiring a contractor to do the trick, just want to learn to live with it, if possible. Now THERE is your tortured analogy for the day. Just because I care. And want to share my crappy writing with the world.

Ah, but it's overwhelmingly anonymous. Which equals a small piece of liberation. Not that I don't stand behind what I say, it's just ... out there... more so than I usually allow in casual conversation.

And that is enough for today.

Letter to D-man

Ah, I've missed you. But I understand why we don't talk anymore. It's ok, really. Things change.

I have been thinking a lot about you lately. I'm not sure you still read this, which is also ok. But I thought that I would throw a message in a bottle out there.

I have been watching Twin Peaks again. An episode a day. And it reminds me of our walks in the Rattlesnake together. And reminds me of watching them the first time around with you. And our fascination with the Missoula connections.

Did you read that I actually met David Lynch? It was cool. Brief, but cool. The people who were at the reading were a passel of freaks, and I suppose I shouldn't act like I didn't belong. Because you of all people know what's going on inside my head, and how well that word really describes a large portion of my psyche.

I have a friend from work who really reminds me of you, too- another thing that has me thinking about you a lot. She and I work out together- we walk on treadmills and talk. She has the same birthday as you, only a few years later. She has a lot of the same personality traits, and is as scary-smart as you. Only you made me laugh more. I don't think she's quite as funny- something about taking herself kind of seriously and all.

I understood your message in our last conversation- that it was goodbye. I know. I understood. It doesn't mean that I don't think about you though. That's just part of it. Remember- my fixation with ghosts and all. This one is a fixation on the ghost of the best friendship I ever had. If you want to create some kind of odd zombie of that one, you have my number. I will always take your call.

Love you!

C.

For those who want to know- been working out extra hard all week, so am physically damned tired. And drained. But in a good/achy/this is good for me even though I hate it way. And work was hectic until today- prepping for a big thingy for the bossman. Which required some early mornings. And some late nights. Not all by me, but the effect is similar to the cause in some cases.

Other than that, we are good. Very good.

And now it's time for some retribution, my stylee.

I get to tell the Phoenician- yes, I am naming names here, to fuck themselves hard.

We are discussing the invoice, you see. For the event that they screwed me on.

And I am pissed. And I am reliving the pain of being there and dealing with their crap.

And I will give no quarter.

And there you have it.

No- I am not asking for a lot, just a touch of justice, if you will. That's all.

Creeping around the edges is a dream
it involves Barbie dolls- the kind they used to make- a long time ago
red lipstick
the smell of grass on a summer night
and a purple bicycle.

Add in the clean sand in the bottom of an irrigation trough-
fishing
the smell of pine trees on a summer day
and a cobalt blue tea cup.

Combine in a blender and pour into a tall Guiness branded pint glass
it won't foam the same.
Deal with it.
Drink it down.
It goes down smoothly.
Then watch it all recede.
Ah- but what it leaves behind.
Afterimages and residue resembling drool on your chin after a long winter nap on the couch.
Or you can just go watch a pirate movie instead.

If you are reading the news, there is weather here.

We live on a hill.

The sump pump in the basement works fine.

All is well.

When the plane lands I am not home. The recognition is there, but home is not. Home is over a thousand miles away.
When the plane lands it is recognizable and unavoidable.
The mountains lurk in the south, the brown of dead things left outside in the sun. A place where people die with some frequency by just taking a little stroll at the wrong time of day.
The air is warm and makes my eyes burn a little. I predict an allergy.
The sky is almost white with heat. All of the nascent blue has been leached away, leaving just pallid emptiness.
Dust creeps along the edges of everything, from my pores to the cracks in the sidewalk. Empty lots glitter with broken glass and metal. They are also along the edges of everything.
Trees that are really not trees, but sticks with leaves on top line the streets.
It is my personal version of hell. And not to be attempted without good cause.

Getting back on the chain gang

The last week was quiet around here. But busy elsewhere, where I spent what energy that I have back on doing good deeds for a dollar.

And this weekend is snowy, rainy and quiet. Just the way it needs to be.

And yes, I have some shopping done. It won't be a total scary thing in a few weeks.

What I really want I can never have.
Because the opportunity was never there, and time stands still for no one.
Knowing what their best times were.
Knowing who they were inside.
Knowing what the ghosts had of value before they became ghosts.
And value in that context does not mean financial.
What they loved.
What they hated.
Most of all what they were.
And there is no chance.
No Mulligans.
I have to make it all up on my own.
Assigning values and contexts.
Based on history and imagination.
Unsatisfactory at best.